The White Wolf's Son (42 page)

Shaking his head, as if to say it was too late to consider this now, Bous Junge drew his long knife and advanced towards me.
I had made a serious mistake in speaking out. I had caused him to change his mind. I knew he was going to slit my throat,
let my blood pump all over that rock and then test its properties.

I closed my eyes, trying to be brave.

“You have made such wonderful mistakes, gentlemen.” I heard a new voice, edged with irony. I recognized it. I strained to
see where it was coming from. “I was almost inclined to let you play the farce through, but sadly your threat to the child’s
life means there’s too much at stake to let you run unchecked any further. First, Baron Bous-Junge, perhaps you would oblige
me by releasing the girl and my son. You’ll find I’ll be a little more lenient with you if you obey quickly.”

I peered into the shadows of the lower tiers of the amphitheater. There, looking relaxed and almost cheerful, with a peculiar
light in his eye which said that he was enjoying himself, was my mother’s grandfather, Monsieur Zodiac, otherwise known as
Elric the albino.

“Damn you, Silverskin!” Disdaining ritual, Gaynor tossed back the vial of my blood into his throat, swallowed it and ran for
the black sword, which vibrated steadily in the stone. He emitted a shriek of triumph that echoed throughout the cavern. It
pierced my head. I
wanted nothing more in all the world than to see what happened next, but as hard as I tried, I could not remain conscious.

Gaynor’s hand closed around the hilt of the sword. The scream intensified. And I fainted.

I
WAS NOT
unconscious for very long, because when I woke, Gaynor was still screaming. The sound of the sword had somehow combined with
his voice. He was glaring down at his right palm. Across it was a raw red welt, as if he had gripped a bar of white-hot metal.

He looked utterly baffled. “But, the blood …,” he said.

Elric drew an identical black sword from his scabbard. He held it aloft in both hands. The thing moaned and muttered; scarlet
writing blazed out of the black steel and reflected on his ivory skin, in his own crazed, laughing eyes. His long, fine white
hair rose and floated in a misty halo around his head, and I understood at last why he was feared.
I
feared him. And I was on his side.

Gaynor grabbed the other vial of blood from BousJunge. The baron made a halfhearted effort to hold on to it. The dirk forgotten
in his hand, he looked up at Elric and the black sword. He was fascinated by something he had probably only ever heard about
in legend. The two Granbretanners, as well as Klosterheim, shared the same attitude of astonishment. They had never encountered
Elric or anything like him before, and they no doubt saw their defeat in that laughing apparition with his shrieking
weapon, threatening everything they thought already theirs. They had been so triumphant, so certain that their great game
had been played and won. And now it became apparent that Elric and his friends had anticipated them. I saw St. Odhran step
back to join the albino. I still didn’t trust him. Was he going to try to wriggle out of his involvement in our capture?

Gaynor narrowed his eyes, steeled himself and drew his own sword, a long, silvery blade with a plain hilt. He forced his wounded
fingers around it. “You know this blade, too, do you, Lord Elric? It is Mireen, Lord Arkyn’s Sword of Law. I paid that Scottish
traitor a high price to possess her. With Taragorm’s help I turned back time. All this I did to defeat you and take possession
of the Balance. I shall own both, once I have dealt with you. One of those blades is counterfeit, forged in Mirenburg. I suspect
it is the one you hold, since the other pierced the Stone when St. Odhran brought it here.” And he put both hands around his
hilt and moved forward as my kinsman vaulted down into the arena to confront him.

“The Sword of Law against the Sword of Chaos!” chittered Baron Bous-Junge, almost with relish. “I have yearned to witness
this for so long. It is perfection. The Balance is doubly personified. Thus we shall make it our servant!” He moved closer
to me, the long poniard drooping in his hand. He had not forgotten me. He meant to draw more of my blood, even if it killed
me this time. That blood had to be absorbed by the stone if his sorcery was going to work. Even I knew that. Taragorm was
out of my line of vision. I guessed he was preparing to spill Jack’s blood.

Gaynor gulped down the second vial of blood, seeming to relish it. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand
and examined his palm with evident satisfaction. The wound had healed. “Ah,” he said. “It tastes so pure.” And he cast a crafty
eye towards Jack.

Then Elric was on him, the black sword howling and screeching with a voice all its own, like a live thing. His thrust was
parried by Gaynor. Another thrust. Another parry. A counterblow from Gaynor, which sent the physically weaker Elric stumbling
backwards. The white sword had no voice but possessed a blue radiance. Blue letters in the same foreign alphabet flickered
along its length. Then, as Gaynor aimed another massive swing at him, Elric flung up the black blade to block it.

“Ach!” swore the big man as the white steel shattered and bouncing shards clattered to the floor of the arena.

“The forgery! It could not even hold its color, eh?” Elric grinned into Prince Gaynor’s twisted face as Gaynor flung the remains
of the sword behind him.

“One of’ em must have the right blood. What’s simpler than that consanguinate sorcery …?” The brute stamped back to the emerald
stone, reaching for the black sword still embedded in it. He put his hand back on the hilt, and this time, although there
was pain, as I could tell from his face, he had the strength to pull the thing free. “Ha! Now we are evenly matched, Lord
Elric. I know this sword. She is called Ravenbrand, the Black Sword’s sister!”

Gaynor had charge of the sword in the stone. He wrapped his two hands around it, gritting his teeth as he did so.

“Mournblade I call her.” A terrible half-smile was still on Elric’s lips. His eyes flickered like furnaces. “Well, not for
the first time have the sisters fought, though again you master your blade with borrowed blood. We must
hurry, Prince Gaynor, for I have another appointment with these swords I would not wish to miss.”

My ancestor’s lunatic laughter was something I hope never to hear again. It was the humor of a man who relished the taking
of life and staking his own in the process. As if risking death and dealing it had become his sole pleasures.

Gaynor grunted, and he hefted the sword, watching the scarlet letters squirreling up and down the black iron.

Then this sword, too, was moaning and yelling like a living creature. Two black swords! One pitched against the other. What
did it mean?

Gaynor renewed the attack. From where I hung, helpless against the stone, I watched the two men make flying leaps over the
barriers, fighting back and forth, up and down the tiers of the amphitheater, sometimes in the light, sometimes in shadow.
Often it seemed to me that the swords themselves fought and the men were merely adjuncts to their battle. I knew I watched
four sentient entities up there.

I was not the only one fascinated by the fight. All other eyes were on it. Beast-masked warriors had entered the upper tiers
and were poised above the combatants, watching them intently.

Elric went down, and Gaynor pressed his advantage. Stormbringer flew free of Elric’s hand.

Gaynor stood over his opponent. “Here’s blood for the block!” he snarled. “Enough for a dozen rituals!” And he lifted the
yelling sword to bring it down on the albino. “Miggea!”

He would have cut Elric in two if the blow had landed, but Elric rolled clear, regained Stormbringer and staggered to his
feet as Gaynor recovered himself.

Elric began shouting weirdly accented words into the air, in a language that sounded a bit like Hindi. I guessed the words
were represented in the letters on the blades.

Gaynor glared around him, suspecting some other kind of attack. He lumbered down on the albino, swinging Mournblade in an
arc which left an aura of black and crimson light streaming behind it. The two were shouting almost in unison.

I heard Gaynor say, “Would you rather have the Balance destroyed, Elric? Would you rather there were no control at all? Merely
the Grey Fees, the abolition of time, the destruction of space?”

Elric was still smiling. “The Balance is not for us to use, but for us to serve, Prince Gaynor the Damned, as well you know.
It is an idea and can never truly be destroyed. Anyone who has ever attempted to enforce his power over its constituent elements
has only failed. They have gone to the ultimate hell, never free of themselves or their own frustrations. Put down that other
sword, Gaynor. I demand you obey me. Mournblade has no loyalty to your own blood, only to that you have stolen. You temporarily
deceive her. Do you think she is not aware of that? She will soon lead you further towards your own just fate.”

Gaynor was jeering. “Weakling! You betray everything. You betray that which makes you strong! You are
all
Betrayal, Elric of Melnibone.”

Elric’s expression changed, and he took up the attack, just as Gaynor had hoped he would.

But Elric was tired. It had cost him dearly to get here in time, to confront them and hope to rescue us. Still, he
was
here to save me; I knew that. If he lost this fight, whatever happened to him in that other world, I was almost
certainly finished. As was this world. Maybe all the worlds.

Then I saw another, much older man standing above Elric. Another albino. Who …? A strong family resemblance. He could have
been my grandpa. Elric in a different time? Impossible.

Then I realized it actually
was
my grandfather. Ulric von Bek reached out and touched Elric as he backed away from the relentless Gaynor. Then Granddad had
vanished. Briefly I thought I saw still another white face staring out of the shadows. Then it, too, had gone.

Elric had more vitality now. I knew the older man had given it to him. Elric used it to advantage. Back Gaynor went against
a blinding flurry of sword strokes. I couldn’t believe the speed. All I know about is fencing, which we do at school. This
was like fencing with claymores, those massive broadswords the Scots liked to slaughter one another with. How did they achieve
that speed of reflexes, let alone the strength needed to swing so many pounds of steel with such ease? My respect for both
antagonists increased. This was no ordinary medieval bludgeoning match.

And there was no clash of metal in the air, just that sickening vibration, the moaning and shouting of sentient, living steel.

Again the opponents drew apart, panting, eyeing each other, the blades resting on the glassy surface of the seats. They spoke
to each other, but their voices were too low for me to hear. I strained forward.

Suddenly Bous-Junge of Osfoud fell to his knees, squirming onto the floor of the amphitheater, clutching at his back. He dropped
the long, greenish knife he had planned to use on me. Sticking out between his shoulder
blades was the feathered shaft of an arrow. I looked to one side. Oona, my grandmother, stood in the shadows on another tier
of the amphitheater, her own skin grey rather than white, her eyes held steady by sheer effort of will. She smiled at me,
dropped her bow, and fell sideways onto the slippery rock. She had anticipated Bous-Junge’s intention to throw the knife into
Elric’s back and had killed him first. But the action had obviously cost her dearly.

I wanted to run to her. I struggled to get free. “Oona!” I shouted, but of course, I was still tied up and could do nothing.

Then I saw the Chevalier St. Odhran coming straight for me, his own dirk in his hand, a weird smile on his face.

In panic I looked around for help. I screamed. I’ve never screamed like that before or since. St. Odhran reached me, raised
the knife and cut my bonds. As I sank, sighing, to the ground, he took my weight. I was numb and weak, but I knew that sensation
would come back soon, since I was uninjured. Leaving me to recover, St. Odhran moved around the other side to free Jack.

At this point Klosterheim hissed his hatred and frustration and, seeing that I was helpless and unprotected, drew his saber
to take advantage of my situation. “Your blood
must
feed the rock, child. There is still time for us to succeed. See how they weaken by the second.”

He was two steps away from me before St. Odhran came back. Klosterheim glared at the Scotsman, muttered an insult, and then
began to run, hauling himself up over the barrier and beating an erratic path up into the darkness of the heights. St. Odhran
made no attempt to follow him. Was he giving the German a chance to escape?

Klosterheim had been wrong. The fighters didn’t look particularly weak!

Elric and Gaynor clashed again. Muscle against muscle, flesh against flesh. I smelled the particular stink of predatory animals,
mingled with something altogether less familiar.

Down went Gaynor, spinning wildly to avoid the weaving runesword, blocking Elric’s long, slashing blow to his torso. Up he
came again, his own runesword gibbering and squalling down at Elric’s unhelmeted head. He caught the albino a glancing blow
as he slipped to one side. Unwounded, Elric drove back his attacker. Gaynor grunted and cursed yet grinned at Elric’s skill,
just as Elric smiled respect for his opponent’s proficiency. So familiar were they with the nearness of death, or worse than
death, that they actually took pleasure in it. Their only alternative, after all, was to fear it. And fear wasn’t there in
either of them.

This was a horrible game and one I would have stopped if I could have, but the glee of the fighters, the noise of the swords
and some understanding of the stakes which they were dueling for overrode my repugnance. I was fascinated.

Thump! Thump! Their bodies were like battering rams in ordinary traveling clothes. Neither man was armored.